


Cinerama

by heimai



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Comedy, F/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Slow Build, idk man asuma is fine and he runs a movie theater with kurenai
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-16 13:51:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13637568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heimai/pseuds/heimai
Summary: The Hidden Leaf Film Society had enough trouble keeping its staff in check without their #1 slacker employee taking interest in their #1 worst customer. It was bad enough that Shikamaru was her literal shoulder to cry on; he just had to go and fall in love with her, too.





	1. At Least It Wasn't a Racoon

**Author's Note:**

> This is unofficially dedicated from me to SpringtimeOfYouth for leaving me the nicest damn comment I've ever gotten! Thank you! Also this site needs more ShikaTema, guys, stop making us write it ourselves -Isabel

“Shikamaru? Are you even listening to me?”

_No._

No, of course he wasn’t. Nara Shikamaru seldom listened to anybody when he didn’t want to, let alone the blonde girl beside him. Tonight was no exception. Especially when all that kept him from passing out was the whir of a fan behind him, his sole champion against the sweltering early June heat, still lingering at an hour to midnight. It wasn’t until Ino finally flicked him in the forehead that he bothered to tune in.

“Asshole, I _asked_ : are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, completely,” Shikamaru lied, absentmindedly picking a piece of lint off his name tag. It gleamed in the bright lights of the concession stand, and there was a little sticker of a smiling movie ticket next to his name. He hated that sticker with a passion. It made him seem too approachable for his taste.

Ino squinted at him and leaned closer to where he perched on the counter, blinding him with her own shiny tag, this one adorned with a toothy bag of popcorn. “Were you really. What was I talking about?”

“You’re pregnant. With triplets. Sasuke’s the father.”

He received a shove for this comment, knocking him off balance. Ino hit _hard_. He collided with the popcorn machine and made to steady himself, accidentally sticking his hand inside with a crunch. That... couldn’t be sanitary. No one had seen, though, so officially it never really happened.

“You’re so full of shit. Whatever. Go clean theater 6.”

“6?” Shikamaru asked incredulously, flicking a stray kernel off his palm and licking off the butter flavor. “No, no, that one’s always the worst. People are so messy, it’s like a big hoard of grimy little rodents ran in and had a field day.”

Theater 6 was, put simply, a hellscape. Especially on Friday nights. There was always gummy candy smushed into the carpet, popcorn in every possible crevice imaginable and there was not a single surface that wasn’t sticky. Touching the floor felt like slamming your hand onto a counter, only to find that someone had a pancake-eating competition on the same surface ten minutes before. Shikamaru wasn’t interested in any of this.

“Make Kiba do it.”

“Kiba did it yesterday, and I did it Wednesday. Choji did it Tuesday, Hinata, Monday, so you’re up, bucko,” Ino told him, pushing a broom into his unwilling hands and straightening her visor. “The faster you do it, the faster you get off work, _but_ if you don’t do it well, Kurenai will kill you on sight.”

Shikamaru sighed. He accepted his fate with a frown, the broom a familiar weight and protection against the wastelands. He slid off the counter, surveying the tiny space behind the concession stand register. There had to be a dustpan somewhere, and some cleaning spray for the tacky banisters, or possibly to ingest, depending on what he found. If some little kid threw up again, he certainly wouldn’t mind taking a couple shots of Lemon-Breeze Lysol.

He found both hiding in the corner and then trudged away, dragging his scuffed sneakers. Maybe Ino would take pity on him, if he looked over his shoulder with those winning puppy-dog eyes.

_On sight_ , she mouthed.

Yeah, Shikamaru hadn’t expected that would work. He’d been told he was hot before, by drunk girls at parties, and more memorably, he’d been told he looked like a clinically depressed rat with irritable bowel syndrome, but never had anyone thought to call him “cute”.

The rat comment came from Sai the morning after a night of heavy drinking, and while it had been rude, Shikamaru had also realized it was horribly spot-on. He had looked in the mirror, and there stood a clinically depressed rat with irritable bowel syndrome.

_Whatever._ If he wasn’t pitiful enough to garner help, he’d take it as a compliment, even if it meant braving this alone. He made his way to theater 6 and waited for the customers to file out, the music still booming as the credits rolled. A group of teenager girls were almost the last to exit, talking animatedly and dragging a poor kid too young for a horror movie. They left behind a thick cloud of cheap body spray. Shikamaru tried not to inhale it.

“Shikamaru!” Sakura beamed, skipping down the small decline from the theater and through the doorway. “Cleaning duty again, I see. I think the high schoolers had a popcorn fight,” she whispered behind her hand.

Shikamaru sighed. “Yeah, well, as long as nobody got soda on the ceiling, I’ll make do. What’d you think?”

“It was great! So gore-y and bloody and suspenseful, and the jump scares were so good, especially for an indie. Even Sasuke was spooked.”

“I flinched at most,” Sasuke said cooly, strolling down to join the pair.

“Oh, come on, when the ghost came out of the oven? That didn't get you?” He shook his head and Sakura stuck out her tongue. “Liar.”

“It sounds like it's good that Naruto didn't come, then, seeing how he is about ghosts.”

A tanned hand shakily rose from behind Sasuke, and he stepped aside to reveal Naruto, fists clenching Sasuke’s jacket and face pale. “I’m fine.” The dark-haired boy tried to shake him off to absolutely no avail; despite what Naruto might say, his death grip spoke in disagreement.

“Sure you're fine.” Shikamaru rolled his eyes. “Come on, Naruto, you're choking Sasuke, just admit you're scared.”

Naruto stepped away defiantly. “But I’m not!” he insisted, and then screeched with terror when Sasuke leaned close and blew in his ear. He punched his shoulder. “Stop it!”

“There's no such thing as ghosts.” Sasuke patted Naruto’s head. “But, if there was, there's definitely one under my bed that wants to eat my feet.”

Naruto groaned and punched him again. “Sakura,” he said, grabbing her arm, “let’s go.” He marched off confidently, dragging Sakura behind as she waved farewell, even as Sasuke called down the hall that he had no idea where they thought they going as he was their ride.

Shikamaru shook his head, amused. The trio had been coming to see movies at the Hidden Leaf Film Society as long as he’d been working there, if not longer. And by now, Shikamaru had racked up nearly three years of service. Which, in his opinion, was three too many for a (technical) adult, but the pay was decent, his coworkers were his best friends, and his boss--though often an ass--treated him like family. It wasn’t likely to find much better than this.

Credits continued to roll down the screen in a dripping crimson font for another minute before they came to a stop, fading to black. Silence filled the auditorium and one of the light fixtures flickered above. It was a fitting effect for _The Ghost That Lurks In The Refrigerator_ (which was an absolutely fucking atrocious title, by the way). The poster featured the frightening appliance with ghoulish hands creeping from its depths. Theater 6 was where Shikamaru and Co. could take turns running whatever film they wanted, and Shino always chose weird low-budget indie horror movies.

It wasn’t hard to guess whose turn it was to pick.

Though, Shino _had_ quietly informed Shikamaru that refrigerator related deaths weren’t unheard of, and even texted him a link to an article about the Refrigerator Safety Act. Shikamaru hadn’t even known Shino had his number.

The path to get to the theater was littered with popcorn and candy, the piles seeming much too big for the amount of food they sold. Some of it was squished into the corner between the wall and the floor, near intentionally. They were such a pain to get out when they were wedged in like that, but alas, duty calls.

Shikamaru used the edge of his dustpan to coax them out, crouching and resting his head against the wall. A closer look at the mess was only more discouraging. Roughly four pieces were removed before Shikamaru grew bored with the task. At least the theaters only seated 50; much more and Shikamaru would be stuck here long after closing, making sure it was Kurenai-approved.

He huffed, and was almost prepared to just leave the room as is. Go home, get some sleep and prepare to get his ass utterly reamed by his pregnant boss, when he heard something. He’d thought he was alone; apparently not. He stood up and listened closer. It sounded like some sort of sniffling.

If there was a raccoon again, Shikamaru was not going to take responsibility. It had happened before, the little shits sneaking in through the exit from the theater’s dumpsters. They could kick back and enjoy the film for all he cared, as he wasn’t much inclined to wrangle them. But Asuma had a strict no wild animals rule after one of Sasuke’s friends brought in a army of _fucking bluebirds_ like some hulking Disney princess, and while Asuma’s wrath wasn’t nearly as frightening as his wife’s, Shikamaru didn’t want to test it. _So raccoon wrangling it is._

The cleaning supplies were left stranded in the hall as he made his way up to the main room. The sniffling continued. Maybe the animal would do him a favor and eat some of the popcorn Shikamaru was about to spend ages collecting. He was sure to miss some, like always, and find them later, fossilized, so maybe their paws could reach where his couldn’t.

When he turned the corner, however, there was no masked beast in sight. Instead, there was a person, up in the top row to the left, as far away from him as possible. They were hidden in shadows, upright in the fetal position.The sniffling appeared to be something worse than a trash panda; it was crying.

Shikamaru wasn’t exactly bad with crying, but he certainly wasn’t free from the awkwardness of it. The figure was curled up, shaking slightly, and didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Fuck. Was he just supposed to clean around them? Leave a tiny sanctuary of trash where they could sob in peace?

Maybe he could just leave it be, but… He pulled out his phone, the time a blinding 11:21 in the dim light. His shift was about to end, and he didn’t want to stay a moment longer, so he’d have to confront the crying person. Raccoon wrangling sounded better.

There were plenty of things that needed cleaning before the aisle at the top, so he busied himself with that. The person either took no notice or just didn’t care. Shikamaru collected his supplies.

The worst of the mess was an entire orange soda that had been dumped across two seats, the cushions sucking it up like a sponge. They squelched suggestively under his gloved hands and he thanked _god_ he wasn’t doing this task with Kiba. As he pressed down, toxic orange welled around his fingers, and if Shikamaru used to like Fanta, he certainly didn’t now.

There was also something on the carpeted stairs, sloping over one and down the other. _Something_ , with a capital S, as he didn’t recognize the substance. It could have very well been a species. What was it about horror movies that made people that much more likely to ruin their theaters? Seriously, they didn’t sell whatever this was, so what the fuck. Not in a million years was he approaching that without anything less than a gas mask.

A hiccup from the crying patron brought this attention back to the true task at hand; getting them the hell out. Twenty minutes had passed, and Shikamaru needed to clean that corner if he was going to make it back to his apartment before he crashed. He just really hoped it wasn’t a girl. Shikamaru hadn’t had the best history with comforting crying girls, or so Ino once informed him.

He slowly climbed the steps, letting the back of his hand trail up the wall as a small warning to his approach. The only thing that could make this worse was scaring them. The row in front of theirs wasn’t actually such a war zone, but he went about sweeping it more than necessary, trying to figure out what to say. In the end, fatigue won over sympathy.

“Hey,” he began, one hand on his hip, the other on his broom. He’d approached the figure, and from a close range, he saw they were wearing tight light blue jeans, their knees pressed to their chest, with a huge black sweatshirt encompassing the rest of them. The hood was pulled completely over their head and their purple sneakers looked worn, like his own green ones. They had a mask on, too, covering both mouth and nose. Completely anonymous.

None of this was particularly telling, except for the jeans hugging the curves underneath. Probably a girl? _Fantastic._ She was just a ball of dulled colors, save for her eyes, which revealed a flash of a deep green-blue. _Like the ocean_ , Shikamaru thought, and then immediately regretted it, because what a stupid cliche.

“Hey,” he said again, “I work here, and I really want to go home, so I know you’re crying and stuff, but could you… wrap it up?” That sounded worse out loud than it did in his head, but he stood his ground. He was tired and did not have the patience for this.

The girl mumbled something under her breath, rubbing her hand over her eyes. Shikamaru didn’t respond, as he wasn’t yet fluent in distraught twenty-something, despite his distraught twenty-something group of friends. She cleared her throat and tried again.

“I didn’t think the dog was going to die.”

Shikamaru blinked. That’s why she’s crying? A dog? He’d seen Hinata and Kiba communally sob over Marley and Me, but she had to have been there for at least half an hour. It hadn’t even been a central part of the movie, and, sure, the death had been a little brutal (tiny dogs apparently look like a nice little snack for hungry refrigerator ghosts), but all the same.

“How did you not know the dog was going to die? The erie camera angle at the beginning, the ringing sound whenever it was on screen? It’s name was Cookie, for god’s sake, in a movie about a ghost with a bottomless stomach. Did none of that tip you off?” She only shook her head. “Okay, well, that sort of sounds like it’s on you.”

The girl shot him a withering look with her red-rimmed ocean eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

_See? Not good at this._

“Anyway, my shift really does end in 10 minutes, and we close half an hour after that. As much as I appreciate company in all this mess, you really do have to go.”

She sniffed loudly, with finality, and unfurled. That sweatshirt really was drowning her, making her shapeless and ghostly, not unlike the specter from the film. A bag of popcorn was flattened on her stomach, crushed by her thighs. And yet she just sat.

“If you could do it this year, that’d be spectacular.”

Another glare. “Your popcorn is too salty.”

“That might just be your tears.”

The blue eyes widened, and then to Shikamaru’s surprise she let out a small laugh, muffled by the mask but a sound that immediately struck him as lovely. He hated that thought as much as the ocean one, but if his laugh sounded like that, he’d certainly be doing that more than crying.

She took her bag with her, even though he half expected her to dump it on the ground for how snarky he’d been. Her descent was graceful, as if she hadn’t spent 30 minutes mourning a fictional terrier. On the last step she turned, looking up at him, illuminated by soft light.

“See you, Shikamaru,” quiet, accompanied by a slight wave. His heart skipped a little, at her voice shaping around his name, though he quickly reminded himself that she’d spoken less than 20 words to him and anyone can read a name tag, especially one with his mouthful 9-letter name. His fingers curled around the broom again and he scowled. _See you?_ So she’d be back.

Hopefully she’d be a little more put together next time, or at least have a break down somewhere Shikamaru wasn’t.


	2. The Sweatshirt Girl Strikes Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this fic we messed with the ages a bit, so Gaara is actually a bit younger than Shika & Co.; he's about 14, where Shikamaru is 19, just so you aren't wondering who this damn child Temari is dragging around is. -Isabel  
> Next chapter we get to dive into the good old fashioned rom-com tropes, so please don't worry! Shikamaru will suffer, promise. -Nahra

Naturally, with the luck Shikamaru had always been blessed with, she was back the next Friday, breaking down in his vicinity. And the next. And the next. Shikamaru just quietly cleaned around her, not finding much reason to speak.

June had been _such_ a long month.

 _The Ghost That Lurks In The Refrigerator_ was weirdly popular, so it was still running itself to death in Theater 6, much to Shino’s delight and Shikamaru’s dismay. If he had to hear the line “well, that ghost is toast” spoken from a toaster-wielding teenage actor one more time, he was going to kick down the door to the projector room and _Shino_ would be toast.

There was apparently a sequel on it’s way, called  _The Ghost That Lurks In The Refrigerator Lurks Again_. Maybe Shikamaru just wasn’t funny. Maybe this was a new, trendy sense of dark humor and any decent movie had accidentally convinced him otherwise.

Well, at least he could avoid Theater 6. He’d bitched about cleaning it so much he thought Kurenai was going to snap, but Choji offered to take over in exchange for barbecue.

There were only six small auditoriums in total. Their building wasn’t really that big, after all, and Shikamaru liked it better than the monstrosity being built across the street--a two story structure three times the size of The Hidden Leaf. At least he wasn’t a janitor for whatever hell that would become. No, even with the terror that was Theater 6, he’d rather avoid all _that_ mess.

Theater 4, next door to Theater 666, was running some German film called  _Kummerspeck_ that brought in the strangest of patrons, as obscure foreign films always did. He usually steered clear. Also, it was mind boggling the number of times Kiba had been able to work the word _kummerspeck_ into a conversation. It was somehow a noun, an adjective and a verb (though it was best if Shikamaru didn’t explain their definition of kummerspecking).

Theater 2 was showing _Orphan_ , and Shikamaru barely sat through Ino’s dramatic reading of the plot in the break room. Hypopituitarism was an 8 syllable word he felt no need to watch a bad thriller movie about.

If even numbered theaters were for all the weird shit, then the odd were for the mainstream media. Shikamaru wasn’t much a fan of that either. Currently, Theaters 1 and 5 were showing some cheesy romantic comedy and an animated movie, respectively. The former was sweet enough to rot teeth, and the latter was trying so hard to appeal to the “youth” it was pulling muscles left and right.

Theater 3, however, was home to one of Shikamaru’s favorite shows: a 90’s classic that had only improved with age. He’d seen it all the way through twice, as every Friday they played reruns on the big screen, drawing in a huge crowd.

It was popular with the staff of Hidden Leaf Film Society; Asuma and Kurenai were long time fans, Shikamaru liked the smart plot twists and Hinata loved the classic hero figure. Choji and Kiba thought it was funny, Shino thought it was artistic and Ino couldn’t get enough of the will-they-won’t-they romance. Because it had something for everybody, everybody loved it. At least everybody in Konoha and within a 100 mile radius. It didn’t hurt that the village it took place in was also, conveniently named _Konoha_ , thus making the show a source of hometown pride.

It was called _Tales of a Gutsy Ninja_ , and that’s what it was about. A trio of ninjas, running around, defending their hometown, getting in and out of battles like they were outfits in a runway line up. There was no exact reason why it was so incredibly good, or, at least, not one that Shikamaru could pinpoint. But it helped that it was spearheaded by three of the biggest stars his generation had ever known; Jiraiya, Tsunade and Orochimaru. So famous they didn’t even need last names, the actors were renowned far and wide.

Jiraiya himself was head writer and the lead, playing the courageous-to-a-fault Naruto (much like their own friend) and meticulously created some of the most complicated arcs and characters Shikamaru had ever seen. He had an easy, bright smile and a mean overhand.

The beautiful Tsunade was the strong-willed and battle-ready Saki, a medical ninja that her team would certainly be dead without. The name meant blossom or something, as Sakura had informed him, though Tsunade was anything but delicate. She was also the director, and with one look at her fierce gaze, even through a camera, you could tell she had the final say on everything. The ground rumbled with every stomp of her foot, both on screen and off.

Orochimaru was Ryuugo, the sinister presence among the three with his flashing yellow eyes and piercing one-liners. He had a sad backstory, dark secrets and a fascination with snakes that got weirder with every episode. But there was a grace to Orochimaru all the same and he portrayed a complex character flawlessly, holding his own in the trio.

Shikamaru liked to stay close to Theater 3 on those nights, catching glimpses or sometimes flat-out watching, usually with Choji until Asuma caught them decidedly _not working_.

They were showing Episode 79, a fairly pivotal point in the series, so the theater was stuffed. Shikamaru and Ino settled for listening to the impassioned dialogue and clash of kunai and the standard yells of “RYUUUU!” and “NARUTOOO!”

“Only downside of this show,” remarked Shikamaru, “is that they sure do yell a lot.”

“Eh, I don’t mind it,” said Ino, sucking on a ring pop. “It wouldn’t be Tales without some good old fashioned screaming.”

The music coming from the theater finished with a final, resounding boom and a last shot of Naruto’s unconscious face panned by, his white hair soaked through with blood. Under normal circumstances, that would have been the season finale, but it’d been over 15 years since it’s release. The crowd would only have to wait a week to discover what happened next, rather than a season.

“It’ll be fine,” Ino reassured the people leaving the theater, her smile easy as a breeze. “This is only Season 3. You can’t have _Tales of a Gutsy Ninja_ with no gutsy ninja!”

It took much longer for everyone to clear out, but once they did, Shikamaru was on clean up duty. He liked the Tales fans most; they generally spent the duration of the episode genuinely watching and thus didn’t have enough to time to ruin his life with spilt soda and stray popcorn. He stepped in as the last stragglers left and waved to let Ino know he was good to go, weidling only his broom and dustpan for the time being. He’d make this quick.

Shikamaru swept the ramp and ran a rag over the bannister, thankful for the gumless rug and syrup-free hand holds. And he was beginning to round the corner when he heard it--a sniffing sound that he now knew wasn’t a racoon.

_Again?_

Shikamaru stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He peered into the shadowed corner of the theater and found a familiar figure sobbing into the sleeves of her enormous sweatshirt. Shikamaru put a free hand on his hip. This was getting ridiculous.

“What is it this time?” he asked, voice carrying over the seats. “Is it because of Naruto? You know it’s only Season 3 and he’s the, uh, main character.”

He echoed Ino’s consolations, confused by her crying. Clearly, Naruto was going to live. But from across the room, the girl gave a muted response, muffled by her layers of clothes and dry sobs. There was no way Shikamaru could hear. He leaned forward.

“What? Can you--you know--you know what? Nevermind. One sec.”

Shikamaru let his cleaning supplies drop the the floor, not caring enough to lean them against anything. After all, this was something he just _had_ to hear. He marched up the steps and through the rows, bumping his shins against the seats as he went. He sat next to the crying girl with a graceless _thump_.

“So what was it this time?” he asked, and she sniffed once more.

“Ryuugo left the village.” Her face in profile, Shikamaru could see a tear roll down her cheek and soak into the fabric of the mask.

“Come on, of course he left the village.”

“But everything was going alright,” she insisted. “Or so it seemed.” She hugged her sweatshirt closer and took a breath. “It’s just… it’s so... heartbreaking? Naruto and Saki didn’t think he would leave, even though everybody else saw it from a mile away. Instead, they tried to ignore how unhinged he was becoming. And then Saki was too proud to acknowledge his running, and Naruto tried as hard as he could to stop it, and it still wasn’t _enough_.”

He sat in silence, considering this. Maybe he was being unfair, judging her tears; this was the infamous episode 79, the epic battle.

“Have you never seen this show before?”

“Not before tonight, no.” How was that even possible? Everyone had seen Tales. Even in Suna, a whole city over, it was popular.

“Well, I thought it was inevitable,” Shikamaru said, still eyeing her profile. She tilted her head slightly towards him, so he decided to continue. “He was in cohorts with the village elders, after all. And the Hokage was blind to his corruption because he was such a promising student. But I always thought Ryuugo wouldn’t be able to follow the rules of Konoha in the first place, so… It’s not surprising he lashed out.”

The girl was quiet, considering his points. Then she put her hand on her forehead and sort of chuckled, like he’d just said something ridiculously stupid.

“What’s your take on it?” Shikamaru pressed.

“Was he in cohorts with the elders, or being controlled by them? And, sure, the Hokage was blind to it, but I’d venture to say he also contributed to Ryuugo’s distorted image of the village. I mean, imagine your whole life being praised for your ability to fight, only to get _too_ good. You can’t be exploited so easily anymore.” Shikamaru blinked, and started to say something but she ran him right over.

“Fear makes people ugly. I think he was scared. And he hurt his friends, but his friends hurt him, too. They ignored him. I think he was half-hoping Naruto would be strong enough to stop him; like, you remember that scene in the rain? Everybody is griping about how he won’t just come back home, but what’s left there for him? I’m not saying I agree with him running away,” she finished, tears completely gone, “I’m just saying I understand.”

Shikamaru opened his mouth, maybe to argue, but then closed it because, _shit_ , she was right. Ryuugo was the favorite character of some of his friends, but he’d never found him particularly sympathetic. But he was now realizing he’d never really taken the time to try and understand him, either, even after watching the whole show two times through. And here was this girl, making him feel senseless for not taking Ryuugo’s feelings into consideration. _Ryuugo._

But, yes. She was right. And if this was her first time seeing the show, she’d gotten all that from flashbacks.

“That’s not really a way I’ve thought of it before. I just kind of consider him a traitor, I guess.”

“He’s not, for the most part. What he did actually played right into what the village elders wanted, so you could say Konoha is the real villain of _Gutsy Ninja_.”

Shikamaru bristled slightly. “He still betrayed his friends.”

“People hurt the people they love. So what? It gets repaired, and then there’s more hurting and then there’s more fixing.”

“And that’s why you think he’s redeemable?”

“If I gave up on everyone I love who has hurt me,” she said steadily, “I wouldn’t have anyone to love left.”

Both fell silent at that. Somehow, the girl was managing a look of both surety and understanding. Shikamaru didn’t really want to think about who could be hurting her. Who would want to? She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of the sweatshirt and sighed.

“You’re right. You’ve changed my mind,” he said with a slight smile, “which, as anyone will attest to, isn’t easy. In fact, almost nobody can.”

“Oh yeah?” The girl sniffed again, but he could hear humor in her voice. She turned to look at him again. “What makes me so different?”

“I don’t know. Most people don’t spend their Friday nights crying in my theater?” She laughed at that, genuine. “We should get you a stamp card; the 10th cry is free.”

“Really?” she asked from behind her mask, eyes shining. “Nobody else does this?”

“Nope. You’re it.”

“I guess I’m special then,” she said lightly, but she shifted a little closer to him in her seat.

Shikamaru was beginning to realize he was leaning closer to her, too. Though she was still no more than a pair of ocean eyes, he found himself drawn; her words and personality magnetic. He brushed his arm against hers as he responded:

“I guess you are.”

“ _Nara Shikamaru, you dog!_ ”

Shikamaru about jumped out his skin, the familiar, piercing voice so sharp he could cut himself on it.

He turned, the conversation and girl momentarily forgotten. At the bottom of the stairs, Inuzuka Kiba stood, grin visible from rows away. His teeth flashed as he held Shikamaru’s broom, pointing the bristles accusingly.

“You were supposed to be done _fifteen minutes ago_. Kurenai is going to kick your ass so hard she loses her shoe!” He looked like he wanted to jump up and down at the prospect. “And I’m _not_ covering for you.”

Shikamaru sighed. How troublesome. Kiba was always sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, exactly like the dog everyone was sure he’d be reincarnated from. He was the definition of barking up the wrong tree.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, and then remembered the girl beside him. He glanced over, only to find that she’d already stood up, her crumpled bag of popcorn in hand. A snap realization occurred as he processed her standing there. It must look as if something had been going on, especially to Kiba’s eyes.

A completely unfair assumption. Not because it hadn’t happened once before, but because when Kiba points a finger three more point back at him.

Shikamaru stood up hastily, trying to think of a way to save face.

“That’s, uh, nice, ma’am. Thank you for your feedback. We’ll be sure to consider desalting our popcorn.”

The girl blinked at him.

“Of course,” she replied. “And maybe work on the customer service.” The girl shrugged. “I’m always right, you know.”

Shikamaru fought not to smile, a difficult task considering she was grinning like a madman beneath her mask. He nodded in conformation and felt his stomach flip once more at the whispered “bye,” she gave him before she ran down the stairs, passing a wildly amused Kiba.

He waited until he was sure she the girl had left.

“Don’t say anything, Kiba,” Shikamaru said, not even bothering to look at his friend’s face, as he was sure he was smirking. “You always… Just don’t say anything.”

Kiba erupted into laughter. “Defensive much?” His shoulders shook as he bent over, a free hand resting on the back of a seat to steady himself. “Oh man, I wasn’t gonna. Totally wasn’t,” he said from between his teeth. “But I definitely am now.” He leaned in, squinting, studying Shikamaru with judgement in his eyes. “Are you trying to tap the emotionally-vulnerable sweatshirt girl?”

“Oh my god, no,” Shikamaru said, only slightly defensive. “Can’t two people talk about popcorn without everyone immediately assuming I’m trying to seduce her?”

There was a bang as the door slammed open below them, and a panting Ino raced into the room. “Somebody said something about Shikamaru getting laid!”

“Yeah, with the sweatshirt girl.”

“No, not with the sweatshirt girl!”

“I don’t know, you always end up in the theater she’s in.”

“By accident.”

“Maybe you subconsciously wanna smash,” suggested Ino. Shikamaru slouched, falling silent. Clearly, nothing he could say would convince his friends otherwise, so there didn’t seem to be much point in trying.

\---

By the end of the next day, it seemed half of Konoha was under the impression Shikamaru was vying for Sweatshirt Girl’s affections. He’d even overheard Sakura mentioning it to Sasuke as they walked out Theater 6, a contented Naruto in tow.

“I heard he talked about it to Choji yesterday and he _smiled_. Do you know how often he smiles?” Sakura asked, and then elbowed Sasuke. “About as often as you do.”

“Wow,” Sasuke deadpanned, “what a cold and unfeeling man he must be.” At least Shikamaru could count on Sasuke to not give a shit; it’s what he did best. Naruto, on the other hand, notoriously gave too many, and he clutched at both of his friend’s arms.

“I know what Hinata said, but if- Wait, shut up, here he comes.”

Shikamaru rolled his eyes and continued silently trundling by with his heavy duty cleaning cart. He ignored the looks of all three and purposefully let the mop drag over Naruto’s face as he passed.

Maybe his friends were so gossipy because they were so close knit, but it was getting ridiculous. Tenten had texted him about it, and she didn’t even live in Konoha anymore. He’d told her he had no idea what she was talking about, to which she responded “that’s not what Neji said”, and who in God’s name was telling Neji anything?

He wasn’t even interested in Sweatshirt Girl, at least not in the way his friends got off on implying. She was _interesting_ , sure, but he wouldn’t considering “crying alone in a movie theater” the good kind of interesting. On top of that, he didn’t even really know what she looked like. She could have horns like the devil or another set of eyes for all he knew. Now that he thought about it, there wasn’t even any guarantee that she was a “she.”

All of this added up to: Shikamaru had no plans to have sex with her. Not today, not tomorrow, not in the foreseeable future and _certainly_ not across the seats of the movie theater he worked at. He had just befriended a bunch of nosy idiots and it was much too late to do anything about that now except wait out the storm, and potentially avoid her, to prove his lack of interest.

Because guess what? Shikamaru didn’t care. He didn’t care, and he could prove it.

“Kiba,” he caught his friend’s arm in passing, a few nights later. More specifically, on the night Sweatshirt Girl usually made her appearance. “Do you mind if I work the ticket booth tonight? I already ran it by Asuma.”

“Why?” Kiba asked, curious. “You never work the front. In fact, you’ve never worked the front ever.”

“I know, I was just thinking we could switch it up a little,” he said, and winced almost in unison with Kiba. They both knew how unconvincing that sounded coming from him; Shikamaru and “switching it up a little” were, for the most part, mutually exclusive.

“Did you force Hinata into cleaning duty?” Shikamaru felt a little bad about that, too. Hinata had given him a soft smile and an “ok!”, not knowing the emotional trauma of taking a night shift with Ino.

“I didn’t force her. I don’t know, maybe she was just tired of seeing your ugly face under those bright lights every night.”

Kiba only laughed and nodded. “Fine, Shikamaru, but I’m going to have to teach you how to do it. Hinata has her understated beauty and blushing. I’m roguishly handsome in a way that makes people buy tickets like they’re going extinct. In fact, I’ll be sole the reason that building they’re building across the street doesn’t put us out of business. But, looking at you…” He waved vaguely at Shikamaru. “I’m not seeing anything that sells. Maybe if you let your hair down…” He made a fast grab for Shikamaru’s ponytail who slapped him away with an urgency unmatched by first responders.

“Over my dead body.”

Kiba laughed. He was always doing that, and it was annoying. “Sure. Just find me later, okay?”

Shikamaru wanted to tell him he really didn’t think his job was all that complicated, but he supposed he should be thankful he switched roles. With any luck, this might be able to turn the tides. Sweatshirt Girl be damned, no enigma was worth this abuse, no matter how tight its jeans were.

And that’s how he ended up standing in front of the window, looking out at a completely make believe customer, taking advice from Kiba, in spite of the fact he’d promised never to take advice of any kind from him.

“Okay, so, you want to look them dead in the eye- Actually I can’t tell if you’re doing it right, so look at me.” Shikamaru sighed and turned. “Look me dead in the eyes… You just look angry. Try to look a little more come-hither.”

“I hate you,” Shikamaru said through his teeth.

“Aw, does someone want to be put back on cleaning duty?” No, he didn’t, and so he would bare this. “Now, say ‘how are you doing tonight, ladies?’ Just go for it.”

Looking square in Kiba’s eyes, Shikamaru deadpanned “how are you doing tonight, ladies?”

“Do you take constructive criticism?”

“No.”

“It was bad. Just be friendly, I know you can be friendly at the very least.” Shikamaru gave it another go, which Kiba applauded. “Nice! That’s halfway decent. Now say it sexy.”

“Say it- What?”

“Just do it! Do you want us to go out of business?”

Shikamaru wanted to slam his head on the counter, but the only way this was going to be bearable was if he played along a bit. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to have fun; Kiba and him just didn’t often see eye to eye on what fun was.

“How are you doing tonight…” Shikamaru leaned on the counter, waiting a beat before snapping his eyes to meet Kiba’s and winking. “...ladies.”

“Holy shit,” said Kiba, eyes going wide. “I’m so hard right now.”

“Shut the fuck up, like you could do any better.” These, as Shikamaru should have known, were fighting words. Kiba repeated the line, this time stretching his arms above his head with a yawn that was much closer to a moan. Shikamaru raised him running his fingers through his hair, and Kiba hit back hard, biting his bottom lip and swaying closer.

They went back and forth a while before Shikamaru knew he had to raise the stakes to win. “How are doing tonight,” he began, sliding one hand up Kiba’s ugly, ugly shirt to his shoulder. He held his breath until the perfect moment, eye flashing and voice low: “...ladies?”

Kiba looked ready to burst into laughter until they both heard a sigh from the door. They turned to see Asuma, looking like a man on his deathbed.

“Is this… Am I actually paying you guys for this?” he asked, to absolutely no one.

Shikamaru and Kiba instantly jumped to opposite sides of the booth, both mumbling something along the lines of “it’s not what it looks like” and “please don’t fire me.” Asuma rubbed his hands over his eyes, and god, he looked so tired. He just stood like that, contemplating, and then sighed again.

“I’m not mad,” he said. “I’m just disappointed.”

Shikamaru vowed to never work the booth again.

\---

The Sweatshirt Girl didn’t even show up.

It figured, with Shikamaru’s luck. The only plus was that Sakura and Sai had come to see the  _Tales_ showing--they were nice enough, and a good distraction from the only other patron who’d caught his eye. A pretty girl with sandy blonde hair and stormy blue eyes.

Those eyes had widened when she saw him, but it was momentary, and then her expression had melted into a slight smile. She was holding onto the hand of a kid who looked like a walking intrusive thought, hunched in on himself with the hood of his jacket pulled down all the way over his face. Shikamaru had sensed something along the lines of mutual attraction between him and the girl, but then the kid was growling something unintelligible and she was gone, with one last lingering glance in his direction.

(It wasn’t like Shikamaru often picked up girls in his profession, but it’d been so long since someone looked at him wanting anything more than popcorn. As was the pain and loneliness of working the booth.)

Since Sweatshirt Girl had been a no-show, there wasn’t any harm in doing the cleaning. Shikamaru just ended up trading back with Hinata, as he didn’t think he could stand another minute in that box. Any hairy wad of bubble gum mashed into the carpet was better than Asuma occasionally lurking by the door, giving them weary looks.

Hinata, on the other hand, seemed happy to be back in her usual place. Ino had probably put her through the wringer. Kiba welcomed her with open arms, telling her Shikamaru “wasn’t as much fun and not nearly as pretty.” Shikamaru couldn’t help but agree.

He was on duty for the Tales showing. The new ending for the fourth season met his ears as the episode came to a close. Episode 80 always had a huge turn out, mostly because everybody wanted to know where exactly Ryuugo had run off to, and if Saki and Naruto had kept their promise of getting stronger. You _could_ look up the plot on Wikipedia and find it out within a minute, but, as he’d said before, Konoha loved its Tales, and it was blasphemous to watch out of order or look anything up.

More than one Thanksgiving dinner had been ruined by spoilers.

It was the same old, same old: people flooding out, giving each other giddy smiles. Sakura stopped to excitedly talk about Saki’s new Saikan Chūshutsu no Jutsu and how it related to what she learned in her nursing class. Sai stood beside her, sporting his familiar, trying smile.

“Where’s your resident furry?” Shikamaru asked after Sakura had burnt herself out.

“You know Naruto hates it when you call him that.”

“He and Sasuke are helping Itachi with something. I guess his team got assigned to a new project in the area and they wanted Sasuke’s input.”

Shikamaru wrinkled his nose. He couldn’t imagine Sasuke willingly helping his creepy older brother with anything. “Really?”

“ _I’m_ not under any impression that’s what they’re actually doing,” Sai said, and his smile twisted into more of a smirk. “...but that’s what they told me.”

Well, alright then.

The duo said their goodbyes, and by that point the theater was deserted. Or so Shikamaru thought. He’d taken barely a step towards the door before he stopped dead.

“I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want to spend time with you, Gaara. You act like I hate you.”

From where he was standing, he could see the pretty girl from before talking to who he could only assume was the teen she’d been holding the hand of. Her face was set, deadly calm, no trace of the smile she’d afforded Shikamaru.

The kid, Gaara, must have said something in return because she sighed. “I just thought it’d be fun.” A pause, another reply that he couldn’t make out. “Don’t be like that tonight, okay?”

“Like what!?” Shikamaru almost jumped. Gaara had gone from barely a whisper to a full-blown shout with no warning. The girl stood her ground, however, eyes piercing in the low light.

“Like a child.”

“I hate it when you pretend to be nice, Temari. I don’t like you and you don’t like me.”

“I do like you.”

“No, you don’t! You only took me here because Granny offered you money again! It’s sad, honestly. You think some trip to a shitty theater is going to make me happy or something?”

Gaara said all of this with spit flying from his mouth, which he angrily wiped away when he was done. Temari said nothing is response. The kid crouched down, his back to wall and his head in his arms.

“I hate that I’m stuck with a sister like _you_.”

Temari put one hand over her eyes and stood for almost a minute. When she finally moved, she winced, and tilted her head up. She blinked. Hard. Shikamaru was surprised to see her holding back her tears, but he figured not everybody was as weepy as Sweatshirt Girl led him to believe.

She kneeled in front of Gaara, and put a hand on his knee that he instantly shoved away. “Just listen,” she said sternly, and he froze, letting her pull back his hood.

A mess of red hair appeared, along with a set of big blue eyes, lost in a sea of eyeliner that made them look bigger still. And above that, no eyebrows. Shikamaru squinted. Gaara looked so much like a deranged raccoon he’d probably feel right at home in Theater 6.

Temari got within inches of his face and started speaking, something much too quiet for Shikamaru to make out. He was beginning to feel a little weird about all the eavesdropping he’d just done, anyway.

“Okay?” she asked, softly. Gaara was still glaring, but the ferocity had ebbed. The siblings looked so tired.

Finally, he nodded. She grabbed his left hand tightly and pulled him to his feet. His right yanked the hood back up, submerging him in darkness. Shikamaru pretended to be busy as they approached, still holding hands.

Temari didn’t say anything but made a point to catch his eye, expression unreadable. Her little storm cloud padded down the hallway behind her. Shikamaru felt like he’d witnessed something he shouldn’t have.

Well, if it wasn’t Sweatshirt Girl making his job awkward, it was bound to be someone else.

\---

As July came to a close, Shikamaru found himself trapped in the cramped break room of the Hidden Leaf Film Society, squished between Ino and Choji as their boss headed the monthly team meeting.

He tuned in and out, hardly listening as Kurenai re-explained the most basic of rules. She pointed emphatically at the bullets she’d written on the old whiteboard nailed into the wall, though Shikamaru knew they’d be for naught. Everyone would disregard them by the end of the month anyways. And there was definitely no point in listening to Asuma, who was babbling on about about some Akatsuki corporation that could create problems for them. If Shikamaru barely cared for the movie theater he worked in, he wasn’t about to get worked up about the one across the way.

So Shikamaru stared into space, watching a bulb flicker above Hinata’s head. Poor girl was stuck on the other side of the table, Ant Man on her left and Air Bud on her right.

Eventually Shikamaru sensed the meeting coming to an end, the air in the room growing ever hotter the longer Kurenai went on.

“...and that’s why we don’t unplug the popcorn machine to charge our phones.” she said, looking pointedly at Ino. “Any questions?”

When Ino tried to protest, Kurenai held up a hand, shooting her a look that could kill a lesser man. But Ino was no lesser man, and when their boss looked away, she folded her arms and sighed in exasperation.

“Well, at least I’m not _sexually harassing_ our customers,” she grumbled.

Kurenai paused. “What?”

Ino grinned, her eyes darting to Shikamaru. It gave it away.

“It’s true, Kurenai!” Kiba piped up unhelpfully. “Why don’t you add a bullet point about that? He’s been horrible about it lately.”

There was a beat in which it was completely silent, and then:

“I didn’t know Shikamaru was such a harlot.”

His lips parted in surprise. Of everyone in the room, Kurenai was the last one he’d expect to jump on the bandwagon.

She was supposed to be the voice of reason here, his base in life’s game of tag. Kurenai had always been the more serene presence to Asuma’s fire, but her pregnancy had also given her a short-temper and strange cravings, not to mention an eccentric and often brutal sense of humor. The latter was rearing its head. He couldn’t believe he was being cornered during a staff meeting over completely unfounded claims, and the only real adult in the room was only contributing to it, calling him… _Calling him a what?_

“No, I’m not,” he insisted, and then: “I don’t feel like my boss is allowed to call me a harlot, isn’t _that_ sexual harassment?” He looked at Asuma, who only shrugged. Shikamaru turned back to Kurenai, who was clearly trying to fight back a smile.

“Yeah, Shikamaru, we’ve heard about this so called ‘Sweatshirt Girl’. What is the nature of your relationship with her?”

“Purely professional,” Shikamaru said quickly. Maybe too quickly, from the looks he was getting.

“That’s Shikamaru for you,” Ino said with a lengthy sigh. Her long legs rested one over the other, two smooth, silent killers. She twisted her hair around her finger, clearly smug at successfully directing the conversation away from her cell phone addiction. “He’s out of control. Riding into our towns, stealing our wives.”

“That’s such bull-”

“No, it’s true, I was one of the wives,” supplied Kiba with a sage nod.

“I think Shikamaru’s just been trying to help her,” Choji offered, and then squinted at his best friend. “...I think.” _God, they’ve got Choji, too._

“I’m not convinced,” Ino said suspiciously. “Sasuke, thoughts?”

“They’re fucking,” said a bored voice, and Shikamaru turned to see the looming figure leaning against the doorway, eating cashews.

“You don’t even work here,” Shikamaru hissed, and Sasuke ignored him, crunching away.

“Shika’s going to get us all sued!” yelled Kiba excitedly, making Hinata cover her ears and wince.

“Look,” Shikamaru said, exasperation bubbling up, “once and for all, I am not hitting on this girl. All of this is by coincidence. I have no reason to be interested in her, I’m just being friendly. No ulterior motives. If anything,” he said, tilting his head up, “I pity her.”

There was silence.

“Well, now you just sound like a dick.”

There was simply no winning.

\---

Of course, none of this actually stopped Shikamaru from seeing Sweatshirt Girl on Fridays, broom in hand. It didn’t stop him from talking to her, even as his friends continued to badger him and his bosses eyed him with the utmost suspicion.

Every week for the rest of that summer, he’d catch her sniffling into a bag of what she deemed was still-too-salty-popcorn. Every week, he’d end up cleaning around her curled figure until he gave into his own curiosity, finally sitting to discuss what was wrong with the movie _this_ time. She’d explain through her mask and soft sobs that it was the wife who was kidnapped, or the duck with the broken leg.

There was always a reason, always a rhyme.

“Oh, come on,” he said, rounding the corner of the ramp. Mid-august was coming fast and it was hotter than ever, the theater choked with heat and the smell of stale popcorn. He looked up into the dimmest corner, finding Sweatshirt Girl crying, faithful to the last. “Reviews said the only thing _wrong_ with this movie was that it was _too_ happy. What could possibly be so heart-wrenching about a singing leprechaun?”

Shikamaru felt the threat of a smile, itching at the corner of his mouth. He was in a good mood. He’d just slaughtered Asuma in a game of checkers, somehow getting the next three days off for doing so. Asuma seldom made bets so stupid, considering Shikamaru’s outstanding gaming record, but Shikamaru had thrown the last five games they’d played to convince the older man he was shit at checkers.

_Ah, what the hell._

He did smile, ambling upward towards the infamous Sweatshirt Girl. This was going to be good. Just how was she going to explain that _Lucky Leprechaun_ was actually a major tear jerker?

He twirled the dustpan around his fingers, whistling lowly.

“I’m not crying about the movie.”

Shikamaru stopped in front of her.

“What?”

“I’m not crying about the movie,” Sweatshirt Girl repeated, so quiet he almost didn’t hear.

It hit Shikamaru, then, a hammer to the face: of course she wasn’t crying about the movie. He might have guessed. He might have _known_ , looking back on Sweatshirt Girl’s history. Nobody really cried over _The Ghost in the Refrigerator_ , after all, and she was here every Friday night, like clockwork.

Shikamaru didn’t want to admit that he’d purposefully ignored the signs, but it was what it was. She probably didn’t just accidentally watch movies that ended up making her upset; she probably did come to their theater purely to cry.

Setting aside the dustpan and other supplies, Shikamaru approached Sweatshirt Girl with all the caution of a frightened cat. He sat next to her, the seat sinking, and winced when she began crying harder.

This was different than before. Before, her sobs were contained, her tears damp but manageable. She would hiccup occasionally, little sounds that escaped her, and a flush would color around her eyes that he’d always thought to be annoyingly endearing. But now her face was buried into her hands, fingers curled like a cage to keep from being seen. She was shaking, horribly.

Shikamaru didn’t remember the last time he’d cried that hard. Not in years.

So for a long while, Shikamaru sat quiet next to her. An unspoken support in whatever she was going through. This much, he figured, he owed her. After all, they were basically friends, weren’t they?

 _I know her favorite color_ , he thought, abstractly, his mind getting the better of him. _Purple. She cried about it a couple weeks ago, during the credits of_ The Reign is Nigh _._

He realized he didn’t just know her favorite color. He knew her favorite food, too--sweetened chestnuts--because of last week’s showing of _Crazy_. And what was more, he knew she was left handed, that she had two brothers, that she collected fans, that she considered Takeko the best character in Tales, despite the fact Takeko only appeared every few episodes. He knew lots of little things, but none of that meant they were friends.

He didn’t even know her name.

Shikamaru sighed. Friends or not, he had to do something, because it’d been more than a few minutes since he sat down and hadn’t been pushed away. Not that she had acknowledged him, either.

He was hesitant, wanting not to bother her, but he eventually moved his arm to the rest between them. The back of his wrist pressed gently against her elbow; she still had her hands over her face.

There wasn’t much else he could do. They knew each other too well for him to abandon her, but not well enough for him to offer genuine comfort. In a limbo like that, maybe silent support was best. Or maybe not. Or maybe he was overthinking this.

He made to pull his arm away, but was stopped halfway. Shikamaru looked down to see that Sweatshirt Girl had grabbed his sleeve, gripping it tight enough to tear. She brought his arm back to the rest.

He let himself look at her now; she was so upset, more so than he’d ever seen. His eyes dropped to her trembling fingers in the fabric of his shirt.

“...Do you-”

A loud ring made them both jump, and Sweatshirt Girl cursed quietly. She pulled out her phone with her free hand and cursed again. It buzzed and lit up in blinding blue. The number calling didn’t have a name attached to it, but it was clear she knew who was on the other end. She groaned and declined, shoving her phone into the big middle pocket.

For a beat more, they were quiet.

“I… have to go."

Her voice was thick with tears, more of a choke than a sentence. She began to stand and, with her, Shikamaru stood too. Her fingers still caught the sleeve of his shirt. He worried she’d fall if she let go.

“Okay,” he said.

It felt vaguely wrong to say anything more, to ask if she’d be alright, since she so clearly wasn’t. He figured it best not to ask stupid questions. Rather, Shikamaru began to walk and she followed, trailing behind as he pulled her along. Out the door, past the theaters, in a blur. And though the Film Society was barren by now, the floor a muffling carpet, their steps seemed too loud.

11:58 PM. The lights were mostly off, but it was still bright enough that Shikamaru could see their reflection as they approached the exit’s glass doors. He was surprised to see his own face drawn into an expression that matched the concern circling in his stomach. Shikamaru wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve. It felt uncomfortable, to say the least. But behind him, Sweatshirt Girl appeared defeated, hanging on by a thread. When he got a look at her face in the reflection, the tears were mostly gone. She was looking down at where their hands were touching,

They paused in front of the glass, and Sweatshirt Girl took a deep breath.

It seemed like she was going to say something, her jaw moving beneath her mask. _Maybe thank you? Goodbye? The customer is always right?_ It could be any one of her usual quips.

Instead, Shikamaru watched her jaw still, her shoulders slump. And then the python’s grip she had on him tightened for the briefest of moments--nails digging sharp--before she stepped away. They’d been closer than he realized. There was something warm about it that was different from the summer heat.

She glanced at him once more and her ocean eyes flashed, glassy and glowing with leftover tears. And then she walked out the door.

Something twisted in Shikamaru’s chest. Maybe he should’ve said something. Or maybe not. Or maybe he should have told her that she didn’t deserve to cry like that, that he’d--

He was seriously overthinking this.

Shikamaru sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes. When he uncovered them, she had completely disappeared into the fog, leaving no sign of her presence besides his own uncharacteristic worry. Hopefully she’d stopped crying for night; it looked darker outside than it had before.

He stood a second longer, fingers fidgeting at his sides, and then turned around to see his two least favorite coworkers staring at him.

“What the fuck,” Kiba said through his teeth. He shot a glance at Ino, who said nothing and continued to look at Shikamaru, appraising.

“Are you really going to deny being interested in her now, Shikamaru?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking back to Theater 5. “Not tonight, Ino. I really don’t want to hear it.” Shikamaru stalked past her and Kiba, who had both fallen silent, likely sensing his temperament. He was worried and could feel the prodding edges of a headache; he was not in the mood for this fucking conversation again.

“Summer’s ending in a week or so, right? She probably won’t be around so much anymore,” he offered over his shoulder. “Maybe that’ll finally get you idiots off my back.” The words came out colder than he’d intended, and by the time he was standing beside his broom again, he felt positively awful.

That was the horrible effect of the Sweatshirt Girl, Shikamaru thought later, as he painstakingly tried to remove the last of a trio of pitch black stains. She was one of the cleanest patrons the Hidden Leaf ever seen, but left Shikamaru with messes that were much harder to scrub away.


End file.
